Building can be seen as a master metaphor for modernity, which some great irresistible&nbsp;force, be it fascism or communism or capitalism, is always busy building anew, and<i>Houses </i>is a book about a man, Arseniev Negoyan, who has devoted his life and&nbsp;his dreams to building.<br>&nbsp;<br>Bon vivant, Francophile, visionary, Negoyan spent the first half of his life building houses he loved and even gave names to—Juliana, Christina, Agatha—making his hometown of Belgrade into a modern city to be proud of. The second half of his life,&nbsp;after World War II and the Nazi occupation, he has spent in one of those houses, being looked after by his wife and a nurse, in hiding. Now, on the last day of his life, Negoyan has decided to go out at last to see what he has wrought.<br>&nbsp;<br>Negoyan is one of the great characters in modern fiction, a charming monster of selfishness and self-delusion. And for all his failings, his life poses a question for the&nbsp;rest of us: Where in the modern world is there a home except in illusion?